


Release

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Sparring, an attempt at absurd sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 07:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: Hanzo has hardly seen McCree for the last two weeks.One sleepless night, they meet in the gym. They spar, for lack of anything better. Hanzo demands answers, and McCree demands some of his own.





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> I just.
> 
> I just really wanted to write a take on the "sparring and then they pin each other and then they make out" trope. 
> 
> But with feelings.

 

The last time Hanzo looked at the clock, it had been some time just after 1AM. He suspects it has only been a few minutes since then, although it feels as though it has been hours. He has been here now for nearly two hours, and soon he will have to give up entirely. Hanzo sighs deeply as he stares up at the plain gray ceiling of his dorm, resigning himself to the fact that tonight’s battle is not one he will win.

After so many years, Hanzo is well-acquainted with his insomnia and the forms it comes in. Some nights, it is simple paranoia, the habitual kind developed after spending years on the run and having many attempts made on his life. Other times, it is anxiety, thoughts that race and chase one another around in his head and cause his heart to pound. Every once in a while, there is no reason at all, which is all the more frustrating. Such nights are becoming more rare as the days pass with Overwatch--his habitual paranoia soothed slightly by a regular schedule and the relative safety of the Watchpoint, the anxieties somewhat eased by the same--but they are not gone. He suspects they never will be.

Tonight it is none of those, but he is preoccupied still by his thoughts. He feels antsy, as though there is something he should be doing, but he knows there is nothing. He wonders if McCree might be awake, too, struck by insomnia the same way Hanzo is. Is he pacing the halls, or down at the shooting range? Is he drinking an ill-advised cup of late-night coffee, or a sedating glass of whiskey, or simply lying in bed as well as he hopes for sleep to eventually claim him? Or perhaps he is lucky enough to simply sleep through tonight.

Hanzo grimaces and turns his head into his arm on the pillow, ashamed and frustrated for once again finding himself thinking of McCree.

He has scarcely seen McCree at all in the past two weeks, and that, more than any simple insomnia, is what keeps him up tonight.

It should not bother him the way it does. It is not uncommon to go days or weeks without seeing certain members of the team. It is the way of their work, to be sent out for missions that take days to complete, or for schedules to stagger in such a way that they do not see each other for long periods of time. Hanzo has not even seen Genji for ten days because of their mission schedules, and it has hardly crossed his mind at all.

The simple truth of it, however, is that McCree is different. Hanzo needs McCree’s presence like he needs air, though he does not know how he came to be so dependent. He had not realized how much he took McCree’s friendship for granted until he found himself suddenly deprived--had not known just how deep his affection truly ran until the source of it was gone.

And for whatever reason, Hanzo knows this is intentional on McCree’s part. It is avoidance, not absence, and Hanzo does not know why.

A pit forms under his sternum, somewhere between his heart and his stomach. He rubs the heel of his hand over the spot, trying to soothe the phantom ache without success. Amazing how he can miss someone enough that it physically hurts, even though they were not . . . anything at all.

He finally gives in and glances at the clock: 1:30 AM. He is not going to get any sleep like this. Tonight’s restlessness will not be resolved with a cup of tea and a bit of time out of bed--tonight calls for exercise, something to hold his focus until he is worn out in body and mind. With luck, by the end of it he will be left with no choice but to sleep.

Hanzo pulls himself out of bed, his body somehow wearily protesting yet grateful for the movement. He steps into his casual boots beside the bed, leaving the laces untied and trailing with gentle clicks against the tile floor.

He starts to reach for his bow as he passes it, then hesitates. He has not seen McCree at the shooting range in nearly two weeks; their ritual of twice-weekly shooting sessions is long gone. He has started to hate shooting alone.

He scowls and swats at his bow. It slips and clatters along the wall, but catches against his quiver before it hits the floor. He leaves it there.

Strips of dim LEDs line the baseboards, guiding Hanzo’s way through the halls and out of the dorm building. As soon as he steps outside, Hanzo is blasted by a gust of frigid night air, and he shivers in his t-shirt and lounge pants. The thought of turning back for a jacket is quickly dismissed, and instead he hurries to the training building nearby. It is only a hundred feet or so, and the cold air is bracing, chasing away what little genuine sleepiness still clings to him.

He is surprised to see a light on through one of the windows, somewhere near the back of the main gym area. He wonders if it was left on by mistake, or if someone else is struck with sleeplessness, too. If McCree, perhaps, might be found there.

He scowls at himself, and accidentally clips his shoulder on the automatic door in his distraction as it slides open.

At first glance, the gym is empty, but the sound of fists striking foam echoes from the adjoining room. Hanzo follows the sound, padding quietly across the floor. There, he finds McCree.

McCree has not noticed him yet. He stands at an angle with his back towards the door, his attention is on the punching bag in front of him. He strikes hard and fast at the bag, all the weight of his upper body behind each strike, his body light on the balls of his feet. Sweat stains his old red t-shirt, making the fabric cling to his broad shoulders and his softer middle. Hanzo does not doubt that the fat there is a facade--if he were to put his hands against McCree’s abdomen, he imagines he would feel a layer of solid muscle there under the deceptive padding.

It occurs to him that this is the longest that he has been alone with McCree in the last two weeks, and it is only because McCree is unaware of his presence.

He sees McCree around the base, catches him in cheerful conversation with the rest of the team, works alongside him when circumstance forces it--but the rest of the time, it seems McCree no longer wants to be near him. He no longer haunts those spaces they shared to drink and talk--the skybridge, the balcony on the cliff, even the roof to the shooting range on occasion--and he dismisses himself whenever they are alone with fewer than two other people. He turns down Hanzo’s invitations to go shoot or run competing drills in the arena. They hardly even speak except when work demands it.

Hanzo does not know what has changed. McCree is normally a reasonable man, not prone to holding grudges, and Hanzo cannot think of what he might have done that may have upset McCree to this point.

Blackmail? No, there is no reason for anyone to attempt to blackmail McCree out of being friendly with Hanzo, at least none that he can imagine.

Protecting himself? Now that Hanzo could imagine. Perhaps McCree had finally realized who Hanzo truly was. Perhaps he had grown tired of Hanzo’s self-pity and cool demeanor, or decided he could not reconcile friendship with the things Hanzo had done. But, even as a pang of hurt lances through Hanzo’s gut, he cannot bring himself to believe that is the truth, either.

He simply does not know, and that is almost as maddening as McCree’s behavior itself.

McCree strikes the bag one more time, a frustrated noise tearing up his throat, and pushes away from it. Breathing heavily, he drags the back of his hand across his brow, then rakes his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. Hanzo’s hand twitches with the urge to do that himself, to tangle his fingers in McCree’s hair and drag him down to eye level, press into his space, demand an explanation or just crash their mouths together in a searing kiss--

McCree suddenly tenses. He turns his head sharply, staring directly at Hanzo over his shoulder. Hanzo starts, and his stomach sinks with guilt as he realizes he’s been caught ogling.

“Hello,” he says.

McCree frowns. “Howdy,” he says stiffly. He turns away, pulling up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. Hanzo’s gaze automatically drops to the exposed skin of his back and flank.

“My apologies. I did not mean to sneak up on you. I did not expect anyone else to be here.”

McCree grunts. “S’fine.”

This is normally the point where McCree would make a joke about their awful sleep schedules or offer to share a drink, but neither is forthcoming. Every line in his body is still tight with some unknown tension, as though McCree is ready to flee at any given moment and just looking for an out.

Hanzo grabs at the first topic he can think of. “I rarely see you train with that,” he says, indicating the punching bag where it still sways gently by its chains. “Difficult night?”

“You could say that.” McCree unwraps the bandaging around his knuckles. “Thought it might be better than throwin’ weights around.”

“Was it?”

“Not really. Prefer to go up against someone else, but that’s not much of an option at one in the morning.”

Hanzo sees an opportunity that he is quick to seize. “Would you like to spar with me?” he offers.

McCree narrows his eyes. Sparring is not necessarily a common activity, but they have done it together once or twice as part of Overwatch’s regular training regime. “Spar with you,” he repeats.

“Why not? I am here now, and I do not plan to go back to sleep for a little while. The exercise would be good for us both, unless you are finished.”

The odd suspicion does not leave McCree’s eyes. Hanzo waits, expecting to be turned away as he has been every time for two weeks.

“Alright,” McCree says at length. “Sure. Why not.”

“Good.” Hanzo keeps his tone light, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat. He heads toward the open part of the room, where a couple of soft foam mats cushion the floor. After a moment, he hears McCree follow behind.

The mat is soft under Hanzo's bare feet, the old foam creaking under his weight. The sound is unusually loud in the dead of night, yet there is something familiar in it that helps to soothe the spike of anxiety that pierces his chest. He turns to face McCree and McCree looks back at him, expression deliberately neutral.

  
“Ready?" Hanzo asks after a moment passes. He does not wait for an answer, easing back into the familiar fighting stance that he has adopted thousands of times before: weight forward on the balls of his feet, hands raised in front of himself, muscles limber and poised to strike.

  
McCree, never trained in any formal martial art, adopts a much looser stance. He sinks back, shoulders back and loose fists raised, and he watches. "Whenever you are," he replies coolly.

They slowly circle each other for a moment, feeling out each other’s movements and the mood in the air that will dictate their fight. McCree throws a light punch that Hanzo easily deflects with a snap of his wrist, then a couple more that are likewise blocked. Hanzo follows the last  strike with one of his own, which McCree catches harmless against his forearm, and they separate again.

“I am surprised to find you here tonight,” Hanzo remarks.

“Couldn't sleep. Ain’t the first time.”

“Nor could I,” Hanzo says agreeably. “I simply have not seen much of you at all recently.”

McCree’s mouth twitches with a frown. He jabs sharply at Hanzo’s chest and follows with a few more, pushing Hanzo on the defensive. “Been busy,” he says. “Had a few recon missions in a row  and Winston likes to send me on those when he can.”

That is partially true, Hanzo concedes. Not true enough to explain two weeks of neglect, but true. He twists McCree’s next blow outward, throwing his arm wide, and follows with a jab to McCree’s side. McCree tries to pivot away, but the blow still glances his ribs, and he grimaces. He tries to disengage again, but Hanzo does not let him, pushing into his space and taking back the offensive.

“Nonetheless,” he says, grateful for the distraction of the fight as he speaks. “I have missed you at our regular meetings.”

“Like I said, been busy. Ain’t always up for socializing after a long mission, either.” McCree dodges Hanzo’s jab as easily as he does the accusation. Hanzo decides to let the matter drop.

They spar in silence for a minute, letting the sounds of their shuffling feet and heavy breaths fill the space between them instead. Sparring against McCree is an interesting challenge--though he certainly did not have the intensive training that Hanzo received since birth, he is far from an incompetent street thug, and he can hold his own. And if it gives Hanzo a chance to touch, to be close to McCree in a way that he is not normally permitted even if the context is wrong, well--that is Hanzo’s own business.

He sees McCree eying him, too, whenever they separate for a long enough moment to allow for it, McCree’s eyes taking just a fraction of a moment too long to flicker down Hanzo’s body and up again. It is no secret that McCree finds him attractive--he has been open about that since the first day Hanzo arrived in Gibraltar--and Hanzo certainly allows himself a little pride in that, but only that. A superficial appreciation for looks isn’t even remotely close to what Hanzo wishes McCree felt for him.

“Tell me something,” McCree says when a few minutes have passed. His pace never slows, though his breathing has started to become heavy and an attractive flush colors his cheeks.

“What?”

  
“What’s your plan when you’re done here?” Hanzo starts to ask what he means, confused, and McCree interrupts, “Not the gym. When you’re done with Overwatch.”

The question is startling enough that Hanzo falters for a fraction of a second, which is more than enough for McCree’s fist to fly past his guard and clip his shoulder. Wincing, Hanzo manages to regain his balance and block the next couple of strikes. “What do you mean when I am done?”

Something dark crosses McCree’s expression. “We all know that you’re not gonna be here forever,” he says. “We all know you just came here because of Genji. So what are you gonna do when you’re done?”

“I--I do not know,” Hanzo replies truthfully. He has tried to consider his options, but any plans for his future are nebulous at best. The mere concept of a future in and of itself is a hazy concept he has only recently started to accept as real after being stuck for so long in a directionless, desperate chase for redemption. A part of him had always assumed he would be long dead by now. “Why?”

McCree doesn’t answer his question. His frown deepens. “But you’re gonna go,” he says, and it sounds accusatory.

“I do not know what I will do. Overwatch is not even officially sanctioned. I cannot imagine it will be around forever, and when that time comes, I will have to--”

“So you’ll just leave,” McCree growls. His next punch hits Hanzo’s forearm just a little harder than usual, leaving behind a brief sting.

“As opposed to what?” Hanzo asks exasperatedly. He catches McCree around the wrist and twists his arm outward. McCree grimaces as his body follows the movement, trying to avoid the strain on his shoulder, and Hanzo shoves him backwards with a hand on his chest. McCree stumbles back a few feet before catching himself. “Are you implying that I should stay in an empty facility as a wanted criminal when Overwatch is through?

“That ain’t what I’m sayin’.”

“Then what are you saying? Why even ask about this?” Hanzo presses. McCree’s answer comes in the form of another punch, which Hanzo easily deflects.

“Fine,” Hanzo says when the answer is not forthcoming. He changes his stance, shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet. “Then I will ask a question of my own.” When McCree strikes at him again, Hanzo twists out of the way and jabs an elbow into McCree’s ribs, careful not to hit too hard and wind him. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I ain’t--”

“You are,” Hanzo interrupts frostily. “I am not a child, McCree. I know that you have been avoiding me. You will not speak to me. You will barely even look at me.”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“It is not _nothing_." Hanzo punctuates the statement with a punch forward, a feint that he pulls back as soon as McCree leans back to dodge it. He drops to the floor, sweeping out a leg and catching McCree in the back of the knees, and McCree yelps as he topples to the mat. Hanzo stands over McCree, victorious for the moment, and scowls down at him as he says, “If you are going to lie to me, at least make an effort.”

McCree pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks up at Hanzo, chin tipped up defiantly despite his position. For a second, Hanzo forgets what they were doing entirely for the sight of McCree splayed out underneath him, and a spark of ill-timed interest shoots through his gut.

McCree smirks, the closest thing Hanzo’s seen to a smile aimed at him in days. “Suppose I can’t get anything by you Shimadas,” he says wryly.

Hanzo offers a hand, and McCree takes it, grasping his forearm to let Hanzo pull him to his feet. For a moment, he is in Hanzo’s space, temptingly close. McCree’s chest brushes against Hanzo’s with a deep breath. His palm is burning hot on Hanzo’s skin.

His smirk fades, replaced by another sudden frown, and he drops Hanzo’s wrist and takes three steps back. Swallowing hard, Hanzo does the same, and they take a few seconds to reorient themselves before the fight resumes.

“You did not answer me,” Hanzo reminds McCree as they begin again.

McCree’s lips press into a thin line over gritted teeth. He knocks Hanzo’s incoming strike aside, catches another against his forearm. “Overheard you and Genji talkin’ the other day,” he finally says. “About what you were gonna do after Overwatch.”

That conversation took place further back than merely the other day. It was, Hanzo now realizes, two weeks ago. “So you became angry after eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for you?”

“That ain’t what I said, and I didn’t _eavesdrop._  I was passin’ the kitchen when you were talkin’.”

“So you are angry about _part_ of a conversation.”

McCree’s scowl deepens, and once again he falls silent. Hanzo changes tack, twists sideways and kicks out at McCree’s chest, and when McCree sidesteps it, carries the energy into a short spin and kicks with his other foot. He very nearly catches McCree’s chin with the back of his heel, and it leaves McCree off-balance enough for Hanzo to push into his space, back on the offensive once more.

“You are being deliberately obtuse,” Hanzo says curtly.

“I ain’t bein’ _obtuse."_

“Then tell me why you are angry. Why you have avoided me for so long.”

McCree scoffs. “Please,” he says bitterly. “Don’t act like you really give a shit.”

The accusation hits Hanzo in the gut, stealing his breath as effectively as if McCree had actually punched him. He grits his teeth, swallowing down the hurt and the vicious retorts that come to mind, and says, “Of course I care. That is why I am asking.”

“Right. Yeah. Because you’ve always been so concerned about lettin’ the rest of us in.”

Hanzo is so taken aback by the sudden vitriol that he lets his guard down for just a moment, which is more than enough time for McCree to seize him by the wrist. He yanks, his other hand seizing a fistful of Hanzo’s shirt, and hurls him bodily to the side. Hanzo hits the mat hard, rolling once and tumbling to a stop on his side, uninjured but winded. McCree stands over him. His glare is intense, yet something in his expression softens as he looks down at Hanzo--not sympathy, but something Hanzo might call interest, the same kind he felt when their positions were reversed minutes ago.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Hanzo says, pushing himself up onto his elbow. “I allow my brother close. I have allowed _you_ close.”

“Is that what you call close? Planning to leave without tellin’ anyone?” Now that interest is gone, replaced again by anger.

“I was not planning _anything,"_  Hanzo growls. “We were only speaking in hypotheticals. He thinks he may go back to Nepal when we are finished, and I told him I may leave, but I do not know yet what I will do. If you had heard the entire conversation, you would know this.” McCree starts to advance on him, and Hanzo rolls back, twisting to put his feet underneath himself before McCree is close. He is barely standing before McCree throws another punch, and as his fist flies past Hanzo’s ear, he can feel the air break from the force of it--far too hard for what it supposed to be sparring.

“You are angry about something that never concerned you,” Hanzo continues fiercely. He ducks out of the way of another vicious strike. “And you are aware Overwatch will not be here forever. You yourself have talked about going back to mercenary work, should the need arise.”

“That ain’t the point.”

“Then what is the point? _Why_ are you doing this?” Hanzo catches McCree’s incoming fist in one hand, hoping to hold him still, but McCree just follows through with the other. Hanzo is not quick enough this time, but instead of striking him in the gut, McCree seizes the front of Hanzo’s shirt and pulls him forward. Hanzo can hear a few threads break as the fabric stretches. McCree still does not answer.

“Why?” Hanzo demands again. “Why are you so--”

“Because I thought you were staying!” McCree shouts.

Hanzo freezes. McCree’s grip tightens in the front of his t-shirt. His breath comes through gritted teeth.

“I thought you would stay,” he repeats bitterly. “With--with the rest of us. Overwatch ain’t gonna last, and folks are gonna scatter, but I thought you’d maybe want to stick around. Work together outside Overwatch or something, I don’t know. Something besides just runnin’ off and never talkin’ to us again.”

Hanzo’s breath leaves him. He grips McCree’s wrists gently, and McCree’s hold surprisingly falls slack. “You do not want me to go,” he says softly, realizing.

McCree avoids his eyes. “It ain’t about me.”

“It is,” Hanzo insists. Something dangerously close to hope is welling up in him, pushing through the anger and haze of misplaced lust. “You are angry because you thought I would leave _you."_

McCree’s jaw clenches. “So what?” he sneers. “Shouldn’t I be mad when a friend decides to fuck off to parts unknown without even sayin’ so?”

The rage flares again, and Hanzo welcomes it, immerses himself in the simplicity of anger. He shoves McCree backwards, making him stumble, and follows with a series of open-palmed strikes. “Do not lie to me!” he demands angrily. “If you are going to make accusations, then at least speak plainly!”

“Go to hell,” McCree spits, and there is something wrong in the way he says it: hurt underlying the anger, as though _he_ is the one who has been suffering.

The last fraying thread of Hanzo’s patience snaps.

McCree’s shoulders hit the wall hard. His head snaps back and slams against the wall, and Hanzo feels a brief flicker of guilt, knowing how that will bruise. Still, he presses his forearm over McCree’s throat, his other hand grabbing at McCree’s right arm, pinning him in place. McCree’s left hand is still free, but before he can anticipate a counter, McCree’s gaze meets his.

Neither of them move. Their breath comes in gasps, and Hanzo can feel McCree’s chest heave, brushing against his with every inhalation. McCree’s face is flushed red with exertion, sweat beading his brow and the sides of his face. His hair is mussed, falling in his face and sticking to his skin. His eyes are dark, the warm whiskey color nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

McCree swallows hard. Hanzo can hear the faint click in his throat. “Let me go,” he says quietly. “We’re done.”

“No.”

“I said--”

  
“No.” Hanzo presses harder, enforcing his hold. “Tell me what you meant.” He means it to be a demand, but it comes out like a plea.

McCree grits his teeth. He tries to shift, but Hanzo shoves him against the wall again, holding him with the weight of his body. He can feel McCree’s angry huff of breath against his face.

McCree licks his lips. Hanzo glances down to the movement, eyes drawn to the flash of pink on tan. The moment hangs between them, utterly silent. McCree does not answer him.

He does not know who moves first, but in a blink, the last scant inch of distance between them evaporates, and they meet in the middle.

McCree’s mouth is slack under his at first, whether from surprise or fear, but the hesitation lasts merely a second. It’s a hard, painful press, more about the contact than finesse, teeth bruising behind their lips. McCree makes a noise that Hanzo can’t decipher as pain or pleasure, but he feels McCree’s hand come up to grip the back of his neck and draw him in. He releases his hold on McCree’s arm and throat, only to grab a fistful of McCree’s t-shirt and pull him down, as though there could possibly be any space left between them.

The kiss deepens quickly, Hanzo parting his lips to the demanding swipe of McCree’s tongue and groaning as McCree immediately licks into his mouth. There is nothing sweet or careful to this kiss--it is anger and desire and adrenaline all mixed together in a vicious cocktail, as much a fight as their sparring was.

McCree’s other hand grips Hanzo’s hip and pulls him forward, then wraps around his middle, bowing Hanzo’s body against his own. The swell of McCree’s erection presses against Hanzo’s hip. Hanzo’s head spins with lust and joy and tentative hope, and he cannot hold onto any of his thoughts long enough to decide what to do next--all he can do is hold on.

“Fuck, Hanzo,” McCree breathes against his mouth. “God, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me--”

“I think I have an idea,” Hanzo replies. McCree starts to say something else, but he cuts himself off with a low moan as Hanzo sucks a kiss into the side of his throat. His grip on Hanzo’s neck tightens, fingertips pressing bruises into Hanzo’s skin.

“You really don’t,” McCree says shakily.

“This is what you wanted,” Hanzo accuses. “This was why you avoided me.”

McCree’s breath shudders out of him. He drags Hanzo up into another rough kiss, his answer plain in the desperate movements of his mouth. Hanzo allows it, McCree’s need feeding into his own, urging him on with a sense of need he hasn’t known in a long time.

“Come to bed,” Hanzo says, emboldened in a way that he never would have been before tonight. He cants his hips so McCree can feel the evidence of his own arousal against his thigh, and he hears McCree inhale sharply. “Please.”

“Yes,” McCree whines, and then, as Hanzo starts to pull him away from the wall by his shirt, “Wait, no, hold on--hold on.”

Biting back his protesting whine, Hanzo leans back just enough to meet McCree’s eye. McCree grips him by the shoulders, seemingly to brace himself as much as Hanzo.

“I--” he starts, then falters, grimacing. Hanzo waits, more than a little impatient, for McCree to finish his thought, but the words never come. McCree shakes his head, throwing away some unwanted thought, and asks, “You sure about that?”

“Do I look like I am unsure?”

“Just checkin’.”

Hanzo sighs, one part frustration and another fond amusement. “I am _certain_ ," he says, tugging on the front of McCree’s shirt. "Do not make me repeat myself."

“Thank fuck,” McCree says. He dips down for another kiss, wet and deep and leaving Hanzo weak in the knees, before peeling himself away from the wall. “Then let's get the hell out of here.”

 

\--

 

Hanzo expects the short walk between the training building and the dorms to cool his head, to leech away some of the frenetic energy still filling his body, but if anything, it does the opposite. The cool evening air prickles his skin, making him all the more aware of the warmth of McCree’s body beside his, and the silence of the late hour sharpens the sounds of McCree’s heavy breathing and every footstep they take together. Hanzo feels ready to snap at any moment, every muscle wound tight with heightened anticipation as he waits for the very second that they are behind closed doors.

His dorm is closer than McCree’s, and he hurries them through, a hand on McCree’s back as he urges him along. As soon as the door is closed and locked behind them, McCree pushes into his space, taking his face between his hands and swooping down for another kiss. Hanzo sighs against McCree’s mouth, luxuriating in the feeling of McCree’s body pressed against his and the easy slide of McCree’s lips between his own. As he slides his hands up McCree’s front, he catches the hem of his t-shirt, exposing the warm skin of his belly, then his chest, until they finally have to break away so McCree can pull it off over his head. He expects another kiss as soon as the shirt is discarded and leans in to meet it, but McCree turns his head away even as his hands find Hanzo’s hips.

“What is the matter?” Hanzo asks, ignoring the way his heart begins to sink in favor of wrapping his arms around McCree’s neck. He brushes his lips against McCree’s jaw, hoping to draw him back in.

“Just--hold on a sec,” McCree says. He gently pushes Hanzo back a little, putting a few inches of space between their bodies. “This is a bit weird.”

Hanzo swallows down an annoyed whine and a sudden rush of cold fear. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean that five minutes ago we were almost beatin’ the shit out of each other, and now we’re--” McCree gestures between them. “This, apparently.”

Hanzo’s stomach begins to sink. “Are you objecting?”

“I ain’t objecting, it’s just that there’s . . . there’s a bit more ridin’ on this for me, alright?”

He cuts himself off, hand flexing on Hanzo’s hip. He looks away somewhere to the side.

“Listen,” he continues quietly. “This ain't a game. If we do this, I’m gonna want more. One night’s not gonna be enough. So if you’re thinking this is just, I don’t know, a bit of fun because we got all worked up back there--”

Hanzo interrupts him by McCree’s face between both hands and leaning up, pressing a kiss to the worried downturn of his lips. When he pulls away, McCree still looks unconvinced, though the lines of worry have been slightly smoothed.

“This matters to me as well,” Hanzo says quietly. “This is not just ‘fun’.”

“You sure?”

Hanzo nods once. He suddenly cannot make eye contact, and drops his gaze to the floor. “I want _you_ ,” he says quietly. “I--perhaps I do not deserve you, but I want you. For as long as you will have me.”

McCree makes an odd, tight noise in his throat, and his brow knits with something not unlike distress. He kisses Hanzo again, hard, and this time he does not relent, and pushes Hanzo back toward the bed.

Hanzo feels the edge of his bed hit the backs of his knees, and just before McCree can press him against the mattress, he turns, rapidly spinning them and knocking them off balance so McCree lands on his back on the bed. McCree yelps, startled, but the shock on his face quickly dissolves into anticipation as Hanzo kneels over him and catches his lips in another deep kiss. The urgency from earlier is still present, simmering between them as they hastily, clumsily undress. Their hands clash as they try to reach for each other’s clothes, getting in each other’s way until they finally accomplish the Herculean task of removing pants.

Hanzo sits back, straddling McCree’s hips, to take in the sight of McCree stretched out under him, a canvas of tan skin on a backdrop of pale gray sheets. He catches Hanzo staring and grins, stretching his arms above his head.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he asks cheekily.

Hanzo hums as he leans forward, dragging his hands slowly up McCree’s belly and chest. “Very much,” he replies. He wants to take his time here, to run his hands over every inch of McCree’s body and memorize the feel of each of his scars on his tongue, but one touch of his thumb over McCree’s nipple makes McCree sigh and bite his lip, and Hanzo forgets the very concept of slowness.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got slick in here somewhere,” McCree says. He rests his hands on Hanzo’s thighs, stroking slowly down and up again as he looks expectantly up at him.

Hanzo has had no reason to purchase anything he might need for an encounter like this, but he hates his past self for not having the forethought nonetheless. “No,” he says. “I do not keep much of that nature.” Or didn’t, anyway--after tonight, he may have more reason to do so.

"That's alright," McCree says. His hands finally come to rest on Hanzo's hips, thumbs pressing into the creases of his thighs. "Gotta be honest, you got me so keyed up that a stiff breeze would just about do it. Don’t think we’d have time for all that.”

Privately, Hanzo agrees. As long as he has waited to get McCree into his bed, he does not have the patience, either, and despite all evidence to the contrary, there is a part of him that fears that McCree will still get up and leave. What currently matters is expediency. If he is lucky, perhaps there will be time for something better later.

“Agreed,” he says, sitting up just enough to see before he reaches down to take them both in hand. McCree cranes his neck to see, his fingers digging into Hanzo’s hips now, anticipating. Experimentally, Hanzo gives a careful pull, and the way McCree’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation is the single most lovely thing he has witnessed in years.

Hanzo leans down for a kiss, leading with a chaste press, then sucking McCree’s lower lip between his own. McCree gasps against his mouth, and Hanzo grins, and starts to move.

“Ohhh _fuck,_ sugar,” McCree sighs with the first roll of Hanzo’s hips, head dropping back onto the pillow behind him. Hanzo tucks his lip between his teeth, holding back the pleased noises already trying to escape his throat, but McCree has no such shame. “That feels real good, thought about you doin’ this to me for ages, _god--_ ”

The slide is just this side of rough but Hanzo barely notices, the minor discomfort overshadowed by the pleasure building low in his gut. McCree shifts, plants his feet on the bed so he can push up and match Hanzo’s rhythm. He throws his arms around Hanzo, one around his back and the other around his neck to drag him down into a messy kiss, all teeth and panting breaths and sweet endearments gasped into Hanzo’s mouth.

McCree’s hand slides from Hanzo’s back and down between them, callused fingers tangling with Hanzo’s where they meet, and the extra touch wrenches a groan from Hanzo’s throat. It’s quick and messy and lacking in any form of finesse, driven by equal parts pure need and high emotion, and it takes only a couple of minutes. Hanzo peaks with McCree’s name on his lips, and as he buries his face in the crook of McCree’s neck to muffle his shout, he hears McCree following shortly behind.

After, as the rush of his orgasm finally subsides, Hanzo is overcome by a bone-deep weariness. He remembers, for the first time in what feels like ages, just how late the hour is and how long it has been since he has slept. He collapses into bed beside McCree, barely managing to roll himself onto his side to face the other man before his body gives up entirely.

McCree seems to feel the same, his movements sluggish as he drags a discarded t-shirt over his belly before flopping down onto the bed. McCree’s arm comes around him and it’s second-nature to scoot closer, wrapping his own arm around McCree’s back. McCree kisses his forehead and murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

Hanzo tries to reply, but all that comes forth is an exhausted hum. His eyelids are too heavy to keep open. McCree says it again, and Hanzo knows there is some significance to the the words he is saying, but he is asleep before he can determine what it is.

 

\--

 

Hanzo wakes seven hours later from a dead, dreamless sleep. Sunshine streams through a crack in the blinds, bathing his dorm in a golden light that tells him it is far too late in the morning.

He remains lying down for a few moments, assessing. His body aches vaguely in a particular way that he hasn’t known in years, though a couple of spots feel more like bruises. There is an unidentified weight at the corner of the bed by his feet, pinching the blankets around his legs. The scent of tobacco clings to his pillow, but if he turns his head slightly, he can smell fresh coffee. He only wakes this late if he could not sleep the night before.

He starts to sit up, and the weight by his feet shifts. As he props himself up on his elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his palm, he hears McCree’s voice murmur, “Mornin’, sweetheart.”

He looks over. McCree sits on the edge of the bed, watching him with a faint smile. His hair looks like it was finger-combed into place, messy but with a semblance of style. He’s still shirtless, though he managed to find his sweatpants, at least. He holds a cup of coffee in his hands, half-empty.

“Good morning,” Hanzo says slowly. He sits up, shivering as the blanket falls from around his shoulders and into his lap. He sees McCree’s eyes flicker appreciatively down toward his chest, then quickly meet Hanzo’s gaze with a hint of guilt.

“Sleep alright?”

The question is so inane that Hanzo almost doesn’t answer it at all. “Fine,” he says after a moment. There’s a fresh cup of coffee sitting on his bedside table, and though he rarely likes to consume anything right after waking, he takes it anyway.

Finally, McCree closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then says, “So. Last night.”

Hanzo tries not to tense. “Last night,” he repeats neutrally. He sips his coffee. It’s sweet and milky, the way he likes it. He can’t recall if he ever told McCree this.

“I, uh, feel like I owe you an apology.”

That, at least, is not an outright rejection of what transpired. “For?”

McCree huffs a laugh. “For all of it?” he suggests. At Hanzo’s look of alarm, he quickly amends, “Alright, not all of it. Not the end. But the rest of it.”

He rests his hand on Hanzo’s ankle, thumb stroking idle lines over the blanket. Hanzo takes another drink of coffee.

“I acted like a real shitheel the last couple of weeks,” McCree finally says. “And I’m real sorry for that. Wasn’t your fault. I heard something I didn’t like, let it get to my head, ended up takin’ it out on you.”

Hanzo rests his cup in his lap, resisting the urge to fidget. “It was not unreasonable,” he says slowly, and McCree interrupts him with a sharp shake of his head.

“It sure as fuck was,” McCree insists. “It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

“Consider it forgiven, then.”

McCree smiles weakly. His thumb continues its movements--whether he is trying to soothe Hanzo or himself is impossible to say.

“The thing is,” McCree says after another long pause, “I think we ended up talkin’ in a lot of circles last night. So I just wanna make a couple things clear, if that’s alright.” Hanzo gestures for him to continue, and McCree looks down at the bed, watching his own hand on Hanzo’s ankle. “I . . . hinted at how I feel about you, I think. And yeah, I was kinda mad when I thought you were leavin’ Overwatch, whenever that would be, but the real problem was that I--”

He swallows, huffs, shakes his head. “Goddamn, shouldn’t be this hard,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Look, I’ve been thinkin’ about this for longer than I’d like to admit. A lot longer, and a lot more than is good for me. So when I heard you might be leavin’, I knew I had to get over this somehow, or I’d be a wreck when you went. Thought maybe I’d get over you if I just cut contact for awhile. Went cold turkey.” His smile takes on a rueful twist. “Didn’t work. Couldn’t get you off my mind, even more than usual, and I handled that about as well as I usually do, as you saw.”

Hanzo has to remind himself to breathe and does so slowly, in and out. He aches to reach out to touch, perhaps embrace McCree until he can absorb all of the self-doubt McCree harbors. He clutches his coffee cup instead.

McCree’s thumb finally stops the gentle stroking, and his grip tightens minutely. “But, uh. That’s where I’m at. Probably way too deep for my own good. And I know you said you feel, well, something, but if it’s not that much, that’s okay.” He lifts his head, finally, nervousness lurking in the lines around his hopeful smile as he looks to Hanzo 

Hanzo sets aside his coffee. He scoots closer to McCree, twisting the blanket around his hips and legs in the process, until he can get his arms around McCree’s neck. He leans into McCree as much as he embraces him, letting him take his sleepy weight and hiding his face in the crook of McCree’s neck.

“Everything is as I said last night,” he murmurs against McCree’s skin. Haltingly, McCree’s hands come up to rest on his back. “If you will have me, I want to be with you. If you asked me to join you when you left, I would.”

McCree chuckles, almost nervously. “Might be a bit soon to be asking about that,” he says.

“You are not asking. I am offering.”

McCree does not immediately reply. When he does speak, his voice sounds slightly off, a little too tight. “Well then,” he says. “I guess we’ll see when we get there. Whatever it ends up bein’, I want you there with me.”

“As do I.”

The last of the tension in McCree’s body finally drains away. He wraps his arms more securely around Hanzo, hands flat against his skin, and rests his head against Hanzo’s. Hanzo closes his eyes and breathes.

They stay that way for a long moment, wrapped up in one another. Hanzo does not dare to move, fearing that if he does, the spell will break before he has had the chance to memorize the feel of McCree’s spine under his hands and the solidity of McCree’s body against his. The sunshine from the window drapes over them both, spots of pleasant warmth that nonetheless can’t compare to that between them. The smell of coffee lingers, a detail that Hanzo could never think to imagine in a fantasy and therefore a tether to reality in the hazy, dreamlike moment.

McCree shifts, lifting his head and nosing against Hanzo’s hair, then pulling back just enough to brush his nose against Hanzo’s. Hanzo smiles as he recognizes McCree’s goal, and tips his face up to meet McCree in a soft kiss. He tastes faintly of bitter coffee and mint toothpaste, which makes Hanzo wonder just how long McCree had been up before they spoke.

Hanzo sighs into the kiss, letting McCree lead him along with the smooth, easy movements of his lips and the teasing flickers of his tongue. Languid and gentle, this doesn’t even begin to compare to the more desperate, heated kisses of the night before, and Hanzo could drown in the easy affection.

Then he feels the cool metal of McCree’s prosthetic fingertips brush against his hip and curl around the edge of the blanket carefully, a silent request. Hanzo answers by sliding a hand into McCree’s hair, drawing him closer and deepening the kiss, but as he cups his hand over the back of McCree’s head, McCree winces and makes a pained noise. Hanzo jerks back immediately, alarmed, before he realizes what must have happened.

“I am sorry,” Hanzo murmurs, lightly brushing his thumb over the tender bruise. “I did not mean to injure you last night.”

“Probably had it comin’,” McCree says wryly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I will worry about it if I choose,” Hanzo insists. “I should not have harmed you at all.” He combs his fingers carefully through McCree’s hair, and McCree’s eyes flutter shut. “Is there anything I can do?”

“C’mon sugar, I’m made of sterner stuff than that, you don’t need to worry.” McCree’s eyes open halfway, looking up at Hanzo through his dusty brown lashes. A mischievous smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “Unless you wanna kiss it better?”

Hanzo huffs in spite of himself, and McCree’s grin widens in amused delight. “Ridiculous,” Hanzo says.

“Had to try.”

Hanzo hums thoughtfully. He cards through McCree’s hair again, pushing it from his face, and remarks, “I can do much more than that.”

The sharp inhale and the comical widening of McCree’s eyes in surprised arousal send a thrill through Hanzo’s gut. McCree catches his mouth in another kiss, smiling against his lips, and Hanzo is helpless to restrain his own smile as he lets McCree push him back onto the bed.

Without the urgency and adrenaline of the night before, they are free to take their time, and McCree seems determined to make use of every second. His tongue curls around Hanzo’s with deliberate care, while his hands stroke slowly down his torso. When his hands reach the top of Hanzo’s ribs and start their journey down again, his mouth follows, pressing kisses into Hanzo’s neck, his collarbone, his sternum, the top of his belly. There he pauses, dragging his gaze back up Hanzo’s body, and an expression of awe comes across his face.

“Lord, you’re pretty,” he murmurs, lips still brushing skin. “Can’t believe I get all this to myself.”

Hanzo hums, arching up into McCree’s touch. “You are lucky,” he says, trying to sound haughty even as  he responds with interest. “A dragon does not allow just anyone to have him like this.”

McCree flicks his tongue into the dip of Hanzo’s navel and Hanzo starts, the ticklish sensation making his body seize and pulling a startled laugh from his throat before he can stop it. He can feel McCree’s laughter as the man pushes himself up again, draping his body over Hanzo’s so that they are face-to-face again.

“Didn’t think dragons were ticklish,” he says with a mischievous grin that has no right to be as charming as it is.

Hanzo affects his best offended expression, but he can’t stop the smile from cracking through, and McCree laughs. Before Hanzo can scold him, McCree kisses him again, and Hanzo decides he can let the offense slide. Amused chuckles soon turn into interested hums, affectionate touches into gentle but insistent pushes, and McCree slides back down Hanzo’s body to put his mouth to better use.

Aching muscles protest as Hanzo stretches and arches up under McCree’s ministrations, the dull pains reminding him of the night before. He and McCree are both filthy, and they have likely missed some important Overwatch-related business in the hours they slept in, and eventually they will have to go face the real world again. But here, wrapped up in the warmth of sunshine and soft blankets, surrounded by the scents of coffee and McCree, Hanzo finds he doesn’t mind.

They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this thing, maybe consider checking me out at commonly-nonsensical.tumblr, or my OW/McHanzo-only blog at kerfufflewatch.tumblr. Or don't. It's your life, my dude.


End file.
